words. “Data mining” was not a term in common parlance. Most people had no idea what it meant. Seelye must have put him up to this.
He shook his head. “Too small a sample. No way to create an association algorithm. Probably need to use an API . . .”
“Let me help you.” Father Gonsalves leafed through the pages, found what he was looking for, pointed—
“Are you familiar with California City?”
“North of Lancaster, in the Mojave.” Hell on earth.
“It will take you a couple of hours to get there. Although at that time of day, the traffic will mostly be coming the other way.”
Was he for real? Traffic in L.A. ran in all directions pretty much twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. The myth of a “rush hour” that flowed one way in the morning and the other way in the evening was strictly an East Coast import, one of the things displaced people from the wrong side of the Mississippi clung to, like faith, to help them rationalize the irrational world that was God’s country. He’d seen the Sepulveda Pass clogged at 4 A.M. , and once sped west on the Santa Monica Freeway on a fine spring day without braking once between downtown and the beach. Miracles sometimes did happen. Just often enough to keep the suckers in the tent.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Devlin objected.
“Sure you have,” replied the priest. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
They stood there staring at each other. Jacinta was still nowhere to be seen. Father Gonsalves gestured at the floor as he reached for the stack of papers. “I’m sorry, the rectory’s . . . closed to visitors.”
Devlin sat on the floor; the seat of his trousers would have to like it or lump it. The padre squatted like a Southeast Asian, rocking back on his haunches. That was a position Devlin had never quite mastered, couldn’t have even had he wanted to. It made him feel like the last refugee not to make it out of Saigon, and he had not yet fallen that low. Not quite.
“There’s more pictures. Do you want to see them?”
“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”
“Listen to this.” Father Gonsalves closed his eyes and recited from memory. “ ‘Dear children! This is a time of great graces, but also a time of great trials for all those who desire to follow the way of peace. Again I call on you to pray, pray, pray—not with words, but with your heart. I desire to give you peace, and that you carry it in your hearts and give it to others, until God’s peace begins to rule the world.’ She said that. Here—”
More pictures. Not the desert: green hills, snowy mountains. A church with twin spires. “That was in 2002. Keep looking—”
A rocky, treeless hillside. Euro-hovels. A million Arabs in mufti, looking up at the sky. Skyscraper windows, sunlight glinting. A saltwater stain on a highway underpass, before which stood a makeshift altar, adorned with candles. And icons.
“You see? We need—”
“We?”
“—to know whether she’s real. Jacinta showed you the pictures from California City.” The pictures in the desert. “Have you ever heard of Juan Diego?”
He thought for a moment; even though he wasn’t originally from California, he remembered something about a baptized Indian, hundreds of years ago, somewhere in Mexico, who had an encounter—probably peyote-fueled—with a beautiful woman.
“She gave him roses and told him to go to the bishop in what is now Mexico City. And when he opened his tilma —her image was imprinted on his cloak. We call her Our Lady of Guadalupe. But it’s not that Juan Diego I’m talking about.”
Instinctively, Devlin looked at the rose petal he was still carrying in his hand as the priest fished a photo out of his stack. A dour bracero , by the look of him, Zapata mustache, floppy hat, holding a rosary. A group of people were kneeling beside him, praying, in the desert. In the background, he could make out a fenced-off area of white rocks with a sign in front of
He shook his head. “Too small a sample. No way to create an association algorithm. Probably need to use an API . . .”
“Let me help you.” Father Gonsalves leafed through the pages, found what he was looking for, pointed—
“Are you familiar with California City?”
“North of Lancaster, in the Mojave.” Hell on earth.
“It will take you a couple of hours to get there. Although at that time of day, the traffic will mostly be coming the other way.”
Was he for real? Traffic in L.A. ran in all directions pretty much twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. The myth of a “rush hour” that flowed one way in the morning and the other way in the evening was strictly an East Coast import, one of the things displaced people from the wrong side of the Mississippi clung to, like faith, to help them rationalize the irrational world that was God’s country. He’d seen the Sepulveda Pass clogged at 4 A.M. , and once sped west on the Santa Monica Freeway on a fine spring day without braking once between downtown and the beach. Miracles sometimes did happen. Just often enough to keep the suckers in the tent.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Devlin objected.
“Sure you have,” replied the priest. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
They stood there staring at each other. Jacinta was still nowhere to be seen. Father Gonsalves gestured at the floor as he reached for the stack of papers. “I’m sorry, the rectory’s . . . closed to visitors.”
Devlin sat on the floor; the seat of his trousers would have to like it or lump it. The padre squatted like a Southeast Asian, rocking back on his haunches. That was a position Devlin had never quite mastered, couldn’t have even had he wanted to. It made him feel like the last refugee not to make it out of Saigon, and he had not yet fallen that low. Not quite.
“There’s more pictures. Do you want to see them?”
“Not unless you tell me what this is all about.”
“Listen to this.” Father Gonsalves closed his eyes and recited from memory. “ ‘Dear children! This is a time of great graces, but also a time of great trials for all those who desire to follow the way of peace. Again I call on you to pray, pray, pray—not with words, but with your heart. I desire to give you peace, and that you carry it in your hearts and give it to others, until God’s peace begins to rule the world.’ She said that. Here—”
More pictures. Not the desert: green hills, snowy mountains. A church with twin spires. “That was in 2002. Keep looking—”
A rocky, treeless hillside. Euro-hovels. A million Arabs in mufti, looking up at the sky. Skyscraper windows, sunlight glinting. A saltwater stain on a highway underpass, before which stood a makeshift altar, adorned with candles. And icons.
“You see? We need—”
“We?”
“—to know whether she’s real. Jacinta showed you the pictures from California City.” The pictures in the desert. “Have you ever heard of Juan Diego?”
He thought for a moment; even though he wasn’t originally from California, he remembered something about a baptized Indian, hundreds of years ago, somewhere in Mexico, who had an encounter—probably peyote-fueled—with a beautiful woman.
“She gave him roses and told him to go to the bishop in what is now Mexico City. And when he opened his tilma —her image was imprinted on his cloak. We call her Our Lady of Guadalupe. But it’s not that Juan Diego I’m talking about.”
Instinctively, Devlin looked at the rose petal he was still carrying in his hand as the priest fished a photo out of his stack. A dour bracero , by the look of him, Zapata mustache, floppy hat, holding a rosary. A group of people were kneeling beside him, praying, in the desert. In the background, he could make out a fenced-off area of white rocks with a sign in front of
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